


Beggars Can't Be Choosers

by roryrhys



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: HYDRA Trash Party, M/M, POV Second Person, Past Abuse, Psychological Torture, Rape/Non-con Elements, Victim Blaming
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-08
Updated: 2015-04-08
Packaged: 2018-03-21 21:11:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3704937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roryrhys/pseuds/roryrhys
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You don't know whose, you don't know when, but the mere fact that they exist is enough to force your still, pinning your calves beneath the weight of your spine until all you can sense below the knee is that blurry fuzz of television static beneath your skin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Beggars Can't Be Choosers

The dream always starts vaguely the same. You're sitting--no, kneeling--on concrete (cold, damp, sending shocks through you to your bones every time you shift; something tangible, recognizable). You can't tell how large the room is, everything feels distant and fuzzy, your vision seems to lag when you move your gaze, sending the grey on black on grey of what you assume to be a cell swirling into a kaleidoscope of shapes and silence. It's a silence that deafens, that catches at the listener's very heart, making your pulse jump to your throat; it's adrenaline that would normally push you to your feet but here keeps to fast to the floor.

That alone can mean only one thing: Orders.

You don't know whose, you don't know when, but the mere fact that they exist is enough to force your still, pinning your calves beneath the weight of your spine until all you can sense below the knee is that blurry fuzz of television static beneath your skin. 

Then there's a voice, soft, almost crooning, through the fog of lagging dream vision, and everything is sharp now, focused, pinpointed, defined so minutely that it forces you to catch your breath, nearly leaving you gasping and heaving on the floor. 

"Hey there sweetheart…"

You know that voice. You know it intimately. But… from where? Whose…? You cycle frantically through the lists seared into your brain as if with a branding iron. The older names--they fade. The longer they lie dormant, their owners possibly long since decommissioned, they become less relevant. Like healing scar tissue. The newest names, they are the freshest. They still burn and hurt and smile and coo pet names. They have tastes and desires that must be categorized and logged and remembered (Remember, darling, you are not a person, you are a weapon and a toy…).

This voice is old. This voice knows you. Has known you. This voice is a handler's and lover's and fighter's and friend's. This voice-- and you know this voice. And it lights shame and guilt deep in your belly. This voice shoots to your heart until you worry you might end up choking on bile on the floor after all, orders be damned. Because this voice goes deeper than orders. It cuts and twists and sneers (No no no that's wrong does this voice sneer? no…).

This is where the dream sometimes varies. Sometimes you raise your gaze, empty, to take in the clear blue eyes--so dark now with anger and malice--and the short blond hair (You could remember how it feels between your fingers, if you really tried to). Sometimes he spoke again, while your eyes were still on the floor, warm-sweet breath against your forehead when he would bend down, tight fingers on your chin, and he would force you to look up. And sometimes he was all cold silences. Sometimes you could swear the stinging blow that would land on your jaw lingered far past the dream's completion. But you never wake up yet. 

This time, you don't look up. You can't with the guilt and shame already twisting hot in your stomach, the heat of it writhing lower inside you than you're really comfortable with but what can you do about that? What have you ever been able to do about that? 

The hand is gloved, wrist to first knuckle, the binding of the kevlar material cutting into your skin when he brings your chin up. And you force yourself to look at him. You force yourself to meet his gaze, because something inside your head whispers don't you owe him that much? And you do. You know you do. You feel with the deep ache of muscle memory that can never be fully erased that you owe him so much more than this. That he deserves better than you. And he does. And it hurts. You can't even lie to yourself that it doesn't because those blue eyes pour ice water down your spine and send your head reeling.

"Did you enjoy it? When you begged for it like a slut?" The words are calm, placid, and drip off the blue eyed man's tongue like honey, making you yearn to lean out and try to taste them on the air. 

The man is crouched in front of you. He pats your cheek almost affectionately, before bringing a fist down hard against your jaw. You don't dare move. You don't dare flinch. You stay perfectly still as your nose and throat fill with copper and you ache to cough and breathe. 

"God, just look at you. You're practically hard and I've barely touched you. Disgusting."

Shame flares in your chest. You can feel it burning in your cheeks. Because he's right. The hit sent an electric jolt straight down your spine to your groin, making your cock twitch. But you refuse to drop your gaze (no, your training is too good for that). No matter how badly it shames you, you keep your eyes on his. You are good. You will be good.

He is standing now, hand in your hair, pulling it hard. Not in order to get a better angle for your mouth, but simply to see if you will yelp. You do not. Not this time. You have, in past dreams, and he has laughed at you, hit you again, asked why you aren't more used to it. And God, if that doesn't bring you fully hard just thinking about it.

He drops your hair and aims a kick at your ribs, sending your sprawling onto the pavement. It's the first time you notice how sore your knees are.

He's in your face. Right up close. You can feel his breath on your cheek and you can hear the hissed insults in your ears and God, but you want to whimper. He pulls you close, almost close enough to kiss you, and--

You jerk awake, gasping, clutching and struggling against the sheets that have tangled around you like a net. And everything is worse now because your arousal is not just a dream, and he's lying beside you, peaceful and breathing softly, and God some part of you--some sick, twisted, corrupted part that you can't for the life of you burn away--wants him to wake up and purr into your ear like that again. It's that small twisted piece of your heart that forces you out of bed to deal with your erection.

The bathroom is tiny but warm, just as the rest of the small Brooklyn apartment you share with Steve Rogers. You sit on the floor, your back against the wall of the shower stall and stare down at yourself, the front of your sweatpants tented. Disgust wells in your chest as you shove your hand into your boxers to palm yourself.

It takes an embarrassingly short time before you're nearly biting through your lips as you come. You need stitches and a shower.

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know how many parts this will have yet but hopefully I'll have the next bit up soon


End file.
